


"Grant" and "Francis" Go Shopping

by Eiiri



Series: In From the Cold-verse [5]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: And Clint is Trailer Trash, Bisexual Clint Barton, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Chanukah, Character Study, Christmas, Clint and Steve are bros, Gen, Holidays, Laura is Clint's sister in law, Let it Snow Let it Snow Let it Snow, Mentioned Barney Barton - Freeform, Mentioned Laura Barton, Mentioned Phlint, Minor Stucky, Mostly Cannon Compliant, Nostalgia, Or However you Transliterate it From Hebrew, Presents, Reminiscing, Steve is Christmas Tree Jewish, Steve is an artist, christmas shopping!, niblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eiiri/pseuds/Eiiri
Summary: Steve and Clint both have holiday shopping to do for their family of choice, so they make a day trip to an outlet mall, have a few heart to hearts, use some coupons, buy a bunch of presents, and eventually get through their shopping lists.





	1. The Story

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays everyone! And happy New Year.  
> It is early on the tenth day of Christmas as I post this, I hope you'll all enjoy.

Steve had pastels strewn across the kitchen island as he drew the holidays of his childhood, colored warmly by nostalgia. He knew the tree he was drawing was fatter and fuller and greener than any they'd ever actually had, there were more lights on it than was probably safe given how hot those bulbs used to get, and the menorah on the corner table was bigger, nicer, and more visible than his father ever would have allowed, but Steve wasn't drawing how it had looked. He was drawing how it had felt.

The solid clack of ceramic on stone pulled Steve back to the present and he looked up. Clint had perched himself on the next stool over and set down a big round coffee mug emblazoned with snowflakes. He was wearing a Santa hat. "Do you know you have chalk on your forehead?"

"No," Steve sighed. He scrubbed his arm across his forehead. "Not surprised though. What's up?"

"Little birdie told me you take Christmas presents very seriously," Clint said with faux subversiveness.

"Is that little birdie six feet tall and named after the fifteenth president of these United States?" Steve asked flatly.

"Yes. Yes, he is." Clint fiddled with his mug on the counter. "Look, I got a bunch of holiday shopping to do, and I don't like doing it online—figure you at least won't give me hell for being old fashioned for that—"

"No," Steve snorted.

"Yeah, thank you," Clint chuckled. "Anyway I'm probably gonna make a day trip out of the city to an outlet mall this weekend, go a little crazy playing Santa. Wanna come with?"

"Sure." Steve shrugged. "I haven't gone shopping yet either. It'll be fun."

"Hell yeah." Clint punched Steve's shoulder. "It's gonna be great."

 

~*~

 

"Since when do you have a truck?" Clint asked as he and Steve walked through the Tower parking deck that Saturday morning, each clutching a to-go cup of coffee.

"Uh, since I bought one in North Carolina to drive Buck up here in," Steve answered. He clicked his key, the red pickup flashed its lights, and Steve reached up to set his coffee on the roof while he climbed into the driver's seat.

"Huh. Cool."

The drive from the tower to Clint's chosen outlet mall should have been just about an hour. With traffic, it was almost two. Then there was parking.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Steve asked, aghast as a third person drove past him into the oncoming lane of traffic while he let a sedan pull out of its space.

"I don't think they're kidding," Clint said. "But screw them. They're gonna die, and you're gonna get this parking space because you're a nice person."

Steve shook his head, the little sedan drove away, and Steve pulled into the newly vacated spot. "People are crazy."

"Happy birthday, Jesus." Clint sighed.

It was kind of funny how, in jeans and t-shirts, coats and caps, two Avengers could just walk into a busy shopping mall without anyone giving them a second glance. They stopped in front of a mall directory and Steve pulled his handwritten to-shop-for list from his pocket. "Where do you think we oughta start?"

"Well," Clint scrolled through his own list on his phone, "probably wherever our shopping needs overlap."

"Which means the team."

"Except for what the hell are we getting everybody?"

Steve took a breath. "Good question."

"They've got a Target as an anchor store. Let's just start there."

"Yeah."

They set off to walk across the mall to the Target. As they walked, Clint asked, “Who you shopping for other than the team?”

“You know.” Steve shrugged. “Buck, of course. Jemma, Fitz, Phil, Pepper. Erin. Dr. Foster and Darcy. Sam—”

“Sam's on the team.”

Steve laughed. “Yeah, guess he is. Maria and, uh, Nick.”

“It's so weird to call that man by his first name.”

“Tell me about it.” Steve sighed. “But then Peggy and Sharon Carter. That's everybody.”

“I got all the same, minus the Carters.” Clint put his hands in his pockets. “Then there's my good for nothing brother, his ex wife, their three kids, Phil's parents, Phil's lawyer sister and her two dogs, Phil's baby sister and her husband and their two kids, and Phil's other sister and her husband and their five kids. Also Agent May and Darcy's pet intern—I mean boyfriend.”

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “How many people is that?”

“With the team, thirty-eight.”

“Fucking hell.” Steve laughed.

Clint grinned and slipped his phone out of his pocket. “I love when you curse.”

“Why?” Steve asked, incredulous.

“'Cause your public image is Mr. Goodie Two Shoes and I kinda love knowing that's bullshit.”

Steve snorted and lowered his voice as they walked past a mom with kids. “In World War Two, 'fucking' was just a warning that a noun was coming.”

Clint guffawed and Steve shoved his shoulder, laughing too.

“You know what I love about Target?” Clint said as they entered the store and Steve grabbed a cart.

“What do you love about Target?” Steve asked indulgently.

“Coupons.” He waved his phone.

Steve frowned. “Wha'd'you mean?”

“Target app,” Clint explained. “Scan the barcode with your phone, it gives you coupons if there are any.”

Steve blinked. “I love the future.” He pulled out his phone to download the app. “My mom would've loved the future.”

“The future's great.” Clint rubbed his hands together. “And now, we shop.”

As they passed the beauty section, Clint grabbed a big boxed gift set of cosmetics and flipped it over to scan it with his phone. “Ten percent off, sweet.”

“Who's that for?”

“Savanna, Phil's sixteen year old niece.”

Steve tilted his head and eyed the gift set. “Her coloration much like Phil's?”

Clint shrugged. “Little darker, little warmer maybe.”

“Get that one.” Steve pointed to another, similar set. “Better colors.”

“I trust your artistic sensibilities.” Clint switched sets.

They both wound up with soft sweaters for Jemma, Clint got Darcy and her boyfriend coordinating geeky T-shirts, Steve found a nice ceramic travel mug for Dr. Mockta, and after much hemming and hawing Clint picked out a set of Corelle dishes for his sister in law, Laura.

“Her kids keep accidentally breaking her plates,” he explained as he set the heavy box in the cart with a grunt. “These are pretty much unbreakable.”

“And the pattern's nice.”

“Yeah, I think so. Hope she thinks so.”

“I'm sure she will.” Steve looked around the kitchen section they were in. “Oh, I just had a wonderful, terrible idea.”

“Hm?”

Steve crossed the aisle and grabbed a set of brightly patterned ceramic knives. “For Natasha.”

Clint frowned. “She doesn't cook—oh. Oh, they won't set off metal detectors. You're an evil genius.”

“Nah.” Steve scanned the knives and put them in the cart. “That's Tony.”

“He's too desperate to be liked to be evil.”

“Yeah, you're right.” Steve chuckled.

Steve had the cart parked with him in the electronics section while he weighed the options in running-friendly earbuds for Sam. Clint came around the corner from the toy section, precariously juggling four huge Lego sets. Steve dropped the earbuds he was looking at to take two of the boxes from Clint. “What the hell?”

“Look, between me and Phil there's four nephews aged nine to twelve.” With some re-arranging, Clint managed to get all the sets in the cart. “At that age, I'd've killed for Legos like this. Was Lego a thing when you were a kid?”

“Don't think so, no.” Steve picked up the ear buds he'd dropped. “We need another cart.”

Clint sighed. “I'll get one.”

By the time Clint came back with a new cart, he'd already grabbed two enormous rawhide candycanes, two sets of eleven Disney princess dolls, and a big plushy rabbit. Steve raised an eyebrow at him. “I see you got sidetracked.”

“Shopping for kids is fun,” Clint said defensively.

“And dogs.”

“The dogs are Kit's kids.”

“Alright….” Steve put a desktop zen garden in the new cart.

“For Bruce?”

“Yup.”

“Hm. Maybe I'll get him a yoga mat.” He wandered off toward the sporting goods section. When he came back, a purple yoga set slung over his shoulder, Steve had his list and a pen out, crossing things off.

“Is Thor even going to be around for Christmas?” Steve asked without looking up.

“Jane says he is.”

“Is it bad if the only thing I can think to get him is the biggest box of Poptarts I can find?”

“No. I think I'm gonna get him one of those hard cider flavor samplers. Maybe if he drinks the whole thing at once he'll get a little buzzed.”

“Probably not, but that's still a good thought.”

After they each got their gifts for Thor, Clint stepped back and looked at their carts. “We're gonna have to wrap all this.”

“I don't mind wrapping,” Steve said. “Kinda like it actually, it's art in a way.”

“I mean, yeah. I don't think there's any paper or bags at home though.”

“Guess we're buying some then.”

“Guess we are.” Clint shoved his cart toward the seasonal section.

After they loaded up on wrapping paper, tissue paper, bags, ribbons, and bows, they figured they were done at Target and headed for the registers. Along the way, Clint paused to grab a red crushed velvet leisure suit. “For Tony.”

Once they paid, Steve said, “We're not carrying all this around the mall.”

“No way,” Clint agreed and they started the trek back to the parking lot. When they got outside, it was snowing hard. When they got to the truck, there was more than in inch of snow in the bed. Clint sighed. “You shoulda gotten one with a bed cover.”

“I bought this thing in the south, remember?” Steve opened the cab and started shoving shopping bags inside. “I think we need a shovel. And a tarp. And a broom.”

“Sounds like we're going back to Target.”

So they trekked all the way back. As they left Target _again_ with a tarp over Steve's shoulder and a shovel and broom over Clint's, Steve said, “The stuff in the cab is fine, do we really want to go all the way back out to clear out the bed now?”

“We don't have to,” Clint said, “but if we wait there'll be more snow and I'm gonna be carrying giant sticks around.”

“Yeah, let's go back out.”

After they got the snow out of the truck, moved the bags from the cab so they'd have somewhere to sit when they left, and covered the bed with the tarp, the two men came back into the mall, Clint blowing on his fingers. “Okay, where's the food court? I need warm things. Like pretzels.”

“Food court is halfway to Target, but pretzels are right there.” Steve pointed.

“God bless.” Clint headed for the Auntie Anne's.

The two of them sat on the wide edge of a fountain, each with a large cup of pretzel pups—mini hotdogs wrapped in soft pretzel. Steve licked some mustard off his thumb and pulled his list out of his pocket. Clint leaned over to see. “Looks like you're, what, a third of the way done?” he asked through a full mouth.

“Yeah,” Steve counted quickly, “I've got six out of, uhh, eighteen. So, yeah, third done. You?”

Clint tapped his nail on his phone screen as he counted. “I've got sixteen outa thirty-eight. That's almost half. Cool. And I know what I'm getting Gabby.” He looked up across the walkway at the Zales, which seemed to be almost entirely populated by men and children. He let out a breath. “And I have an idea what to get Phil, if you'll back me doing something completely insane.”

“Hm?” Steve followed Clint's gaze.

“I think I'm gonna get Phil a ring.”

“Oh? Oh! Wow.” Steve gave a thoughtful bob of his head. “I mean, if you're serious then go for it.”

Clint shrugged and smeared a pretzel pup with cream cheese. “At the very least, if he dies again I want his fucking pension.”

“I'd call that fair.”

The Zales was crowded—same as the rest of the mall, and probably every mall in the Christian world this close to Christmas—but it was well staffed. Steve hung back, eyeing the contents of a few cases, but Clint walked right up and was immediately approached by a young woman dressed all in black. “Hey, merry Christmas. Can I help you with anything?”

“Uh, yeah.” Clint rubbed his palms surreptitiously on his jeans. “I'm looking to buy a ring.”

The clerk grinned knowingly. “An engagement ring?”

“Yup.”

“Well, congratulations!” she said brightly. “Women's rings, or...?”

“Men's.”

“Right this way.”

Meanwhile, another clerk gently approached Steve. “Can I help you, sir?”

Steve shook his head. “I'm here with a friend. He's shopping, I'm just kind of looking.”

“Alright.” The clerk flashed a smile. “Well, my name's Katie. Let me know if you see anything you think would suit anybody on your Christmas or Chanukah list.”

Steve grinned. “I am half Jewish actually—haven't celebrated Chanukah since I was a kid though.”

Katie laughed. “I'm the same way. I'd celebrate it, but I always forget when it is.”

“I think it was last week.”

“Oops.” Katie shrugged. “Missed it. Guess I can stop saying Chanukah list for this year.”

“Guess so,” Steve agreed. “And, you know, there are a couple ladies on my list who'd appreciate some jewelry.”

“Alright, great.”

 

Pushing down the urge to be sick, Clint finished up his transaction, thanked the clerk who had ever so patiently helped him, and went over to Steve, who was also just wrapping up paying.

“Has anyone ever told you,” Steve's clerk asked slowly as she ran his card, “that you look a little bit like Captain America?”

Steve chuckled. “I've heard that, yeah. Can't say I see it though.”

“Oh, c'mon, Grant,” Clint said, sliding into the conversation and punching Steve's shoulder. “Have you looked in a mirror lately, my man?” He leaned toward the clerk conspiratorially. “You shoulda seen him when he was still in the service.”

“Shut up, Francis,” Steve said, shooting Clint a look.

The clerk laughed. “Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks so.” She handed Steve his card and bag of purchases. “Have a nice rest of your day and a happy holiday.”

“Happy holidays,” Clint echoed as he and Steve left the store. He took a deep breath.

“How do you know my credit card has my name as Grant?” Steve asked in hushed tones.

“I could read it from across the room. I also habitually rifle through people's wallets.” Clint took another breath. “Shit, I feel faint. I don't like this.”

“You just bought an engagement ring, of course you're freaked out.” Steve elbowed Clint gently. “Can I see?”

Clint showed him. It was a simple silver band, brushed around the middle but polished to a shine in two stripes around the edges. “Figure, get it engraved or something if he says yes.”

“He's going to say yes.”

“Yeahhhh,” Clint snapped the little box closed and dropped it back in its bag. “I'll deal with that when I get to that. What'd you get?”

“Nice wristwatches for Peggy and Sharon.”

“Cool.”

They stopped into a bookstore where Steve got a leather-bound journal for Bucky, a bobble head Darth Vader for Darcy, a metal building set of the Brandenburg Gate for Fitz, a book of rare classic cars for Tony, and a stress ball shaped like a coffee cup for Coulson. After having a good laugh at the coffee mug stress ball, Clint got a coffee table anatomy book for the oldest of Phil's nieces, a copy of _History's Worst Inventions_ for Stark, a coffee table book of U.S. military issue weaponry from the Revolution to the Second Gulf War for Bucky—which got a “Really?” from Steve—and a desk calendar of funny news headlines for Dr. Mockta.

After they left the bookstore, they headed toward the pro shop at the other end of the mall for Clint to get his gift for Gabby, the one remaining niece, but on the way he spotted a Victoria's Secret and said, “Hang on, I need to go in here for a second.”

Steve did a bit of a double take. “Why?”

“Get something for Nat,” Clint said brightly as he skipped into the lingerie store, bookstore bag swinging against his leg in a way that looked bruise inducing.

“Here?” Steve asked, following him in.

“Yeah, she likes nice undies.”

“This is uncomfortable…” Steve muttered.

Clint side-eyed him. “Dude, you were in show biz.”

“That doesn't change the overwhelming sense that we don't belong here.” Steve eyed all the pink undergarments and bras just inside the storefront with apprehension.

“Calm down,” Clint chided playfully as a clerk honed in on them and Steve's obvious discomfort.

“Can I help you guys find anything?” she offered. “Gifts for your lady friends?”

“She's just a friend who's a lady, not a lady friend, and I got this.” Clint flashed her a thumbs up and started thumbing through a display of panties.

The clerk arched an eyebrow and gave Steve a questioning look. Steve shrugged and shook his head.

“Alright, well, my name's Melissa, let me know if you need any help.”

Without needing help from Melissa or any of the other shopgirls, Clint picked out a set of purple velvet and lace high waisted panties with a matching purple velvet and lace long-line strapless bra. As they left, Steve ran a hand over his face. “It still seems like a weird gift for a woman you _aren't_ dating or married to.”

“I've lived with her, we're close—we did date, that happened—and I know you've seen her walking around in my boxers.”

Steve glanced at him. “I've seen her walking around in boxers.”

“Those are mine.”

Steve looked to the ceiling. “Why is she stealing your boxers?”

“Because that is the nature of my relationship with her. This,” he lifted the bright pink shopping bag, “isn't weird.”

“No, your relationship is just weird.”

“Bro, you're one to talk.”

Steve took a breath to object, but then shut his mouth. He huffed. “That's different. And we are dating now.”

“A century later.” Clint snorted.

“Seventy years,” Steve corrected.

“I rounded up.”

At the pro shop, while Clint assessed the selection of compound bows, Steve pretended to wander off, browsing through the myriad distractions of the sprawling pro shop, picked out a lightweight many-pocketed vest for Clint, bought it, hid it in his bookstore bag, then came back toting a box of iceskates. “Think I'm gonna get these for Jane, I remember her saying she's always wanted to learn.”

“Yeah, that's cool, that's a good thought,” Clint said somewhat distractedly as he ran his hands over a sleek silver bow. “This one has an adjustable draw weight so she'd be able to use it for longer, I think that's good.”

“That does sound good,” Steve agreed. “And it's pretty.”

“Isn't it?”

Clint bought the bow, Steve bought the skates, they looked at each other pack muling their presents, and decided it was time for another trip out to the truck.

“Driving back is gonna suck,” Steve concluded as he shook the snow off in the entryway.

“Yeah.” Clint took his hat off to shake it out then tucked it in his pocket. “When we get home, I'm making snowmen on the roof though.”

“Then taking pictures of them for your blog?”

“Of course.” Clint grinned. “Are you hungry? I'm hungry.”

“I'm always hungry. But the food court is still halfway across the mall.”

“Well let's head that way!” Clint said and started off.

They managed to grab a table, Clint stayed to guard their seats while Steve went to get himself most of a pizza and some pasta, then Steve sat to guard and started eating while Clint got himself a plate from the Japanese place—teriyaki chicken, double meat.

“I only have three people left,” Steve noted as he looked at his list.

Clint leaned to look. “Pepper, Maria, and Nick, huh? Hang on—you crossed me off. When did you cross me off?”

Steve grinned and folded his list away. “When you weren't looking.”

“You sneaky sonofabitch.” Clint laughed appreciatively. He took a bite of chicken and waved his cheap wooden chopsticks as he scrolled through his own list. “I still gotta get stuff for you, Maria, May, Sam, Fitz, Nick, Phil's parents, sisters, and brothers in law, and my good for nothing brother.”

Steve frowned around his ziti. “Is that what you have him on your list as?”

“Good for nothing brother? Yup.” Clint ate some rice and a carrot. “No idea what to get him—he's in prison, not even sure what I'm allowed to get him.”

“Books.”

Clint gave him an unimpressed look. “Barney does not read.”

“Jigsaw puzzles, playing cards, slippers, cigarettes—even if he doesn't smoke, they're currency.”

“Oh, he smokes.” Clint sighed. “How do you know all this?”

“Dad was Irish, a lot of his friends were cops. I dated a cop. I had a buddy who was a lawyer. I knew quite a few people who got arrested.”

“Arrested for what?”

“Perversion, pickpocketing, prostitution, or a combination of the above.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I try a bite of that ziti? It looks good.”

“Only if I can try your chicken.”

“Go for it.” Clint reached across the table to snag a noodle with his chopsticks.

Once they cleaned up from lunch, they went into the mall's Bed Bath and Beyond outlet, which Clint seemed absolutely tickled existed.

“It's a housewares store,” Steve said.

“Yeah.” Clint rolled his eyes. “But this is the only time I've ever seen this particular housewares store in a mall. Not gonna lie, it's part of why I wanted to go to _this_ mall. I have coupons.” He pulled a folded cache of six-by-ten slips of cardstock out of his pocket and waved them proudly, _20% off_ flashing in big blue block letters.

Steve shook his head, chuckling indulgently.

Clint got big soft fluffy comforters for Phil's parents and his two married sisters, then stood staring at a display of As Seen On TV thingamabobs, grabbed a fancy allegedly Bavarian knife sharpener for May, then asked, “Steve, what the hell do you get for a lawyer whose children are her dogs when you already got gifts for her dogs?”

“No idea.” Steve set a coffee mug warmer in the cart. “You've met the woman, I haven't.”

Clint sighed, pulled out his phone, and dialed Phil. While it rang, he picked up a fitness tracker wristband from an end cap and mouthed to Steve, “Does Sam have one of these?”

“I don't think so.”

“Cool.” Clint dropped the tracker in the cart. Phil picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe, tell me shit about Kit.”

Phil paused. “Are you and Steve out Christmas shopping?”

“Yeah.” Clint frowned. “Where the hell else did you think we were all day?”

“Knowing the two of you, you could be anywhere from a triathlon, to a car show, to a gay bar, to the nearest Shriners' children's hospital.”

“Nobody gets up at eight in the morning to go to a gay bar, they don't hold triathlons in the driving snow, and the nearest Shriners' is in Philly.” Clint waved off a bemused look from Steve. “We're shopping and I have no idea what to get your sister.”

“I got her a DSW giftcard.” Clint could hear the shrug in Phil's voice.

“You're not helpful, you know that?”

“I don't know what to tell you.” Phil sounded apologetic. “Maybe call Shannon? She's better at this stuff than I am.”

“Yeah, I'll do that.” Clint sighed. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Clint smirked. “Because I'm awesome.”

“Yes,” Phil agreed with an indulgent chuckle.

“I'll see you later.”

“Good luck.”

Clint poked the end call button. Steve, who'd wandered away, came back with a sleep mask embroidered with a closed left eye and open right one which he put on top of the mug warmer. Clint tilted his head. “For Nick and...Maria?”

“Pepper.”

“Makes sense.” Clint scrolled through his contacts and dialed Shannon. She picked up after two rings.

“Hello?” she said, almost managing to not sound out of breath, then away from the phone she snapped, “Dakota you get your sister out of the washer right now!”

“Uh, it's Clint, if this is a bad time I can—”

“No, no, I know it's you, caller ID exists. And now's fine, assuming my children don't drown each other. What's up?”

“Trying to find a Christmas present for Kit.”

“Let's see.” She let out a breath. “Shawn and I already got her a replacement coffee maker…. Her old one is a little bit completely broken. Other coffee related stuff works, though. She's a bit of a shoe hound but shoe sizing gets weird so gift card is your best bet going that way. Things for her dogs is never a bad plan. If it's in your budget, she's always a size ten in Liz Claiborne, off the rack. She lives is suits.”

“Yes, that. I like that. You're the best.”

Shannon laughed. “Happy to help. Good luck. Ah, hell—Dakota!”

She hung up. Clint looked at his phone in concern then pocketed it. “Hey, let's pay then skip over to Macy's, I'm getting Kit a suit. Shannon told me her size.”

Steve hummed thoughtfully as he pushed the cart toward the checkout. “That could work for Maria too, if we knew her size.”

Clint held up a finger, then pulled his phone out again. “It's in the S.H.I.E.L.D. database.”

“Fantastic.”

Maria, it turned out was an eight. They each got her a suit—one blue with black piping from Steve, one dark green with little gold buttons from Clint—and Clint got a deep burgundy suit with black satin lining for Kit. On the way to check out, Clint spotted some sweater vests—buy one, get one half off—which he got for Fitz, saying, “He's the only person I know who actually wears these.”

“I've seen Bruce in a sweater vest once or twice,” Steve said.

“Yeah, but you see Fitz in 'em once or twice a week.”

“Good point.”

Out of the store, Steve reached for Clint's shopping bags. “Hey, I'm done with my list, why don't I take these out to the truck while you keep shopping. Who do you have left?”

“Yeah, sure, uh, here.” Clint handed his bags over. “I got you, which, I'll figure you out. My brother but I'm gonna get him a case of cigarettes online—less hassle if it goes straight to the prison from the vendor. Jane and Nick. Might just get them chocolates, don't think either of them dislikes chocolate.”

“Chocolate sounds good.”

So, while Steve trekked out to the truck through the wind and snow, Clint found the Godiva store. They were having a sale, so the place was packed and the line was very _very_ long. Clint was still five people back from the front of the line with his two massive holiday tower sets of fancy on-sale chocolate—and a couple separate boxes because, hey, they were on sale—when his phone dinged with a text in his pocket. He looked down at the gift sets and boxes he was holding, decided against fumbling for his phone, and instead propped one end of the stack of chocolates on his forearm so he could reach his smartwatch and blindly tap at it until it read him the text through his hearing aids: _From Mr. Rogers's Angry Nephew, “Should I bring the truck around to the entrance?”_

Clint pursed his lips, held down a button on the side of the watch to wake up the AI, received a cheerful beep-boop, ducked his head so maybe nobody would notice him talking to himself, and said, “Hey, Jarvis, tell Steve yes. I'll be coming out the Dillard's.”

The familiar, polite, accented voice responded in his ears. “I've texted him for you, Agent Barton.”

“Thanks, buddy.” He held down the button again to put the AI back to sleep.

Steve had the truck pulled into the hashmarked drop-off/pickup zone in front of the Dillards, out of the way of the traffic, when Clint came out into the wind and snow, a Godiva bag hanging from each wrist. The tarp over the bed was tented up lumpily from all the presents. Clint hurried to climb up into the cab, tossed the chocolate into the little space behind the center console, shut the door, and buckled. “Let's go. And do me a favor, don't run this vehicle off course nose first into an icy tomb.”

Steve rolled his eyes, put the truck in gear and pulled into the flow of traffic around the mall. “I'll do my best. Road conditions suck.”

“Tell me you put winter tires on this thing,” Clint said warily.

“I didn't but somebody did.” Steve braked suddenly and honked at a minivan that just about backed right into him; cursing under his breath, he continued out of the parking lot. “I think Tony has somebody go through and put winter tires on all the non-sportscars in September or October.”

“My bet is it's Pepper who has that done.” Clint settled into the corner of the seat and against the door, and started surfing Amazon for a case of cigarettes to send his brother—menthols, because Barney hated them and would trade them rather than smoke them.

“I dunno,” Steve said. “It's a car thing, might actually be Tony.”

“Yeah, fair point.” Clint texted Laura for Barney's mailing address, locked his phone, and stretched. “Hey, that chalk drawing you were doing the other day—”

“It's pastel, not chalk.”

Clint paused. “What's the difference?”

“Well, I was using cream pastels, so they're not dry, they have oil in them. There are chalk pastels but even those aren't just chalk. They're usually harder, much more heavily pigmented.”

“Huh. Cool. You prefer the cream ones?”

“Yeah, I find them easier to control on the page.”

“Makes sense. But you were, like, drawing a Christmas tree. Is that how Christmas was for you as a kid?”

“Yes and no.” Steve shrugged. “It's not how it really was—we never had a tree that nice or so many presents under it, and usually what presents there were under the tree were wrapped in newspaper or unfolded brown paper bags. But I was a kid, and it was Christmas, and I don't know how things are now but at least when I was young you never felt poor on Christmas. The next day, talking to your friends, and they got a hundred toys and you just got a book and some socks, yeah, then you feel really damn poor. Christmas itself always felt grand though.”

“Nah, yeah, I get that.” Clint nodded. His phone dinged, he thanked his sister-in-law and started inputting the shipping info into Amazon. “I totally get that. Was kind of the same way for me. There was a menorah in your drawing too, though?”

Steve glanced at him. “I know you know my mom was Jewish.”

“Yeah, I do—heard you joking with the clerk at Zales, too, but I think that's the most I've ever heard you say about that. Like, you are _obviously_ Christmas tree Jewish, but how Jewish are you? Or were you? Hell, I only half know what I'm asking.”

Steve chuckled. “Just Jewish enough to know how to spell Chanukah two different ways that are both right because Hebrew is about as bad as Russian to try to write with the English alphabet, and to understand a little Yiddish, most of which is insults or food.”

Clint snorted. “I feel like the insults and food thing is true for anybody who knows just a little of an ancestral language.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed.

“But, so, did you celebrate Chanukah growing up or…?” Clint started another Amazon order, this one of oil pastels and other art supplies to be sent to the Tower.

“Not really?” Steve shrugged. “My mom allegedly converted to Catholicism when she married my dad and he wasn't a fan of the Jewish stuff. We did have a little dented old menorah that my mom had had ever since she was a kid, and she'd do the candles for eight days but always out of the way, away from the windows so no one would see. There was one year, right after my dad died, we couldn't afford a tree so my mom pretty much said fuck it, we're Jewish this year but that was the only time we really _did_ Chanukah. Me and Buck stole a tree the next year.”

Clint laughed. “I'm guessing you didn't tell her it was stolen?”

“No way.” Steve shook his head. “We told her we found it.” He got onto the highway to get back to New York City, traffic going the minimum legal speed due to the weather. “How was Christmas for you growing up?”

“Man, that is a question without one answer. When I was real little, before my dad fucked off to fuck knows where and my mom subsequently lost her mind and her parental rights, we had this monstrosity of a silver tinsel tree that my mom always smothered in pink lights. I remember it being huge but that's probably just because I was small. That's the one Barney pushed over on me.” Clint ran his fingertips over the scars on his scalp hidden by his hair. “Mom made a pink star to go with the pink lights. Made it outa lemonade bottles and hot glue. Probably looked a mess but I thought it was the best tree topper in the world.” He chuckled wistfully. “After dad left and mom went nuts, we spent a couple Christmases with our grandma. The first one was probably the best Christmas we ever had. Got a real tree that I know actually was huge because my step-cousin Andy, who's about the size of Thor, needed a ladder to decorate the top of it.”

“How do you fit a tree that big in a house?” Steve asked, agog.

“Grandma had an old farm house with a two story living room and a mezzanine instead of an upstairs hallway.”

“Okay, that makes more sense.”

“Yeah. That was a good Christmas. Grandma pulled out all the stops for us—we made a gingerbread house and left out cookies for Santa, woke up Christmas morning to the biggest pile a presents we'd ever seen and stockings full of candy. We stayed in our pajamas all day, drinking hot chocolate outta mugs with our names on them, watching Christmas movies on TV, and roasting everything we possibly could in the fireplace. Next year, though, grandma was sick, so Christmas was a lot smaller. Tree and lights from Goodwill, one string a which would go out randomly—but smacking it to get it to light back up turned into a kind of game. After that we were in foster care so we were pretty transient, I hardly even remember those Christmases.”

“That must have been rough,” Steve said sympathetically.

“It kinda was, but it was also just one more thing, so it barely registered.” Clint sighed. “That's probably why I don't remember.”

“The silver tree, that's when you were living in a trailer, right?”

“Yeah,” Clint confirmed. He laughed a little. “Damn thing took up almost one whole end of the trailer. It was shoved in front of the end of the couch and a window. I think my mom wanted to make sure everyone could see we had a tree up.” He and Steve both laughed. Clint leaned his head against the window. “When I was older and with the circus, Christmas was kinda weird. We didn't take the holiday off, so we had a show, and a whole bunch of trees—one at every entrance and a giant one out front. We didn't have time Christmas morning for presents and things because we had to get ready, so we did it the night before after the crowds had gone home. The tent was the only place really big enough for all of us to be together, so we set up tables and ate Christmas eve dinner there, exchanged presents if we had any to give. Those were also my only Christmases after I lost my hearing that I didn't have hearing aids. One of our clowns was Deaf and he taught me to sign, so the first year after I went deaf, I know I sat with him. It was all pretty surreal, looking back. Can hardly believe all that was my life.”

“Oh, trust me, I understand.”

“I'm sure you do.”

 

The weather, thankfully, let up as they approached Manhattan, but the city was still covered in a heavy blanket of snow. Steve parked under the Tower, they borrowed one of the self-driving flatbed carts from the loading dock, asked Jarvis to keep the Tower's residents from checking the feed on any security cameras that showed them while they unloaded the truck, covered the cart with the tarp, and snuck upstairs to one of the unused bedrooms. They dumped their purchases on the bed and sent the cart back down to its home. Steve brushed off his hands and cracked his knuckles. “Jarvis, nobody but me and Clint is allowed in here until all the wrapping is done, okay?”

“Of course, Captain.” Jarvis sounded amused.

“Cool.” Clint held the door for Steve as they left the room. “I'm gonna go make snowmen on the roof. Wanna join me?”

“No, I've had enough cold. Thanks though. Ask Sam.”

“Are you trying to get me into a snowball fight?”

Steve grinned. “Maybe.”

Clint elbowed him, then trotted off toward the common room, asking, “Hey, Jarvis, where's Sam?”

Steve chuckled, then retreated to his and Bucky's room, shed a few layers of clothing, tossed his boots into the bottom of the closet, cracked his toes, and went to sit at his desk. The drawing he'd done of his childhood Christmas was magnetted up to the wall over the desk along with another drawing he'd done over the past couple days of Christmas as it had been for him and Bucky when they'd lived together in Brooklyn: a skinny, half decorated, lightless little tree standing at a jaunty angle in its holder, two packages beneath it, the table shoved up against the kitchenette to make room for the tree, scraps of drawings and beer bottles strewn across the tabletop.

He rolled up his sleeves, got out another sheet of the heavy drawing paper, opened his case of pastels, and started in with grays and whites and pinks, drawing Christmas as Clint remembered it, starting with the tree just as he'd done with his own memories, then building the rest of the world around it.

By the time he finished and stuck the new drawing up with the others, it was completely dark out and he had a long list of unread notifications on his phone, at least seven of which were photos of snowmen being posted to Clint's blog. There was a soft knock and he turned to see Bucky leaning in the doorway, wearing a reindeer patterned sweater. “Dinner time. Natasha got weirdly nostalgic and taught me, Pepper, and Bruce how to make pelmeni.”

“Pel-what?”

“Meat dumplings. I think I remember that I like them.” Bucky shrugged and held out a hand. “C'mon. Let's eat.”

Steve closed his pastel case, got up and took his best guy's hand. They walked down the hall together, past the enormous pre-lit artificial tree in the common area with its color changing lights and odd assortment of ornaments picked out by everyone who lived there, and they went upstairs to the kitchen to eat with the family they had found.


	2. Steve's List




	3. Clint's List




End file.
